


Jirl, Interrupted

by Cordelia_Sun



Series: Personal Indulgences [2]
Category: Farscape
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Innuendo, Mild Smut, Season/Series 02, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cordelia_Sun/pseuds/Cordelia_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On such a large ship, with such a small crew, why is it so damn hard to find a little privacy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jirl, Interrupted

_**Moya’s Main hanger…** _

“Are you sure you won’t join us, Crichton?” Zaahn rests her hand on John's arm and treats him to a serene smile.

“Naw, I’m good,” he's leaning against the transport pod’s step ladder, a casual thumb hooked in the waistband of his pants, “I’m just here to make sure you guys get off safely.”

“Is there anything we should get for you?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a big mac, large fries and a root beer. Diet if they have it.” John smirks, amused at himself, and Zaahn responds with a long, patient look. After a couple of microts under that implacably calm stare he cracks and answers more seriously, “just some decent protein…meat. None of that entrails crap we usually end up with.”

“You should accompany us down to the commerce planet.” D’Argo strides up carrying a large crate, which he dumps at the foot of the steps. He points a reproachful finger as he straightens up, “everyone needs to pull their weight.”

“I pull my weight,” John protests and he makes a show of helping pass the crate up to the pod, as if to demonstrate the point. “I’ve just got some stuff to take care of here.”

“What stuff?”

“Just…stuff! I don’t see you ragging on Aeryn for not coming.”

“Aeryn has real work to do.” D’Argo walks back to collect another crate and calls over his shoulder, “you will probably waste your time playing with your thing.”

“Do what now?”

“You will waste your time playing with that thing.” He nods towards John’s module with a look of great disapproval.

“My _module_ is _not_ a waste of time. And that’s not what I had planned.”

D’Argo frowns at him and opens his mouth to argue when Rygel zooms past on his little throne sled, “leave him, he hardly contributes when he comes along anyway. Just walks around gawping and talking gibberish.”

“See.” John swallows his outraged objection, “you don’t need me. You just want me to babysit Chiana.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Chiana shouts down from the transport pod.

“That is debatable,” D’Argo says, half under his breath.

“I heard that!” shouts Chiana.

“There, it’s settled,” says Crichton with a clap of his hands and he cheerfully waves them all aboard the transport pod and watches them take off.

 

**_Earlier that day…_ **

John sits at the counter in Moya’s central chamber and studies his breakfast. It looks like a bowl of oatmeal and it smells like a bowl of oatmeal, but he cant help but think it tastes of foot. Not that he’s ever actually eaten foot, but he thinks it's a pretty good bet it would taste like this. Not bad, as such, just a bit well…footy. He takes a mouthful and swallows quickly, trying to hard not to think of toes; instead he thinks of bacon, scrambled eggs, french toast, orange juice.

It’s early in Moya’s day cycle and John is the only one around. He’s not normally a morning person, but having woken in the middle of the night, sweating at some half-remembered nightmare, he’s given up trying to get back to sleep. He’s actually enjoying the peace and quiet.

He’s halfway through the bowl, day dreaming about pancakes, when Aeryn enters the chamber. He looks up and gives her a nod and a little wave of his fingers. After a brief pause in the doorway she helps herself to a bowl of footmeal and joins him, seating herself on the opposite side of the table.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, taking a small bite; she keeps her eyes fixed on the food.

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep.”

She gives him a non-committal nod, without looking up, and continues to eat. John watches her quietly as he stirs the grey sludge in his bowl. She has her hair tied up today, in a high pony tail, and a few wispy tendrils have worked their way loose around the nape of her neck. He’s fascinated by the contrast of the dark strands against her ivory pale skin. He tries not to stare. He starts to feel a pressing urge to say something, anything, to fill the silent void. Words bubble up inside him, but he suppresses them firmly; he is not going to babble at her, dammit!

Aeryn has been avoiding him. Just over a weeken ago she slipped from his room in the middle of the night and they have barely spoken since. She’s changed her work-out schedule and sleep cycle and she's been careful to never be alone with him. When they’re together with the others she is, on the surface, her usual self, but they share none of the cautious flirting and oh-so-accidental touching that he’s become so used to. The little cracks in her self-contained soul are completely sealed. He misses them.

John has a nagging feeling that he should apologise, but he has no idea what for.

Not the sex; he thinks they understand each other perfectly well on that score. She said it wasn’t a thing, he can deal with that. Not a problem.

Or maybe it was _The Sex?_ He thinks it was good; well OK at least. They were both pretty tired and battered. And it had been the first time in months for both of them…most probably. She seemed happy enough. He remembers she isn’t a human woman. Maybe he’s offended her in some alien way; done something weird. Oh god! Did he do something weird? She would have said. Wouldn’t she? Crap! He feels his cheeks flush.

“Are you alright? You’ve got this weird expression on your face.” Aeryn asks.

“Yeah, fine. I’m just thinking.” He replies and manages, with some effort, to keep his voice level.

“I thought I could smell burning,” she says, deadpan, and John makes a face at her.

“Are you planning on going down to the commerce planet later?” she asks.

Something in her tone makes John stop before answering. It’s hesitant; that’s not like Aeryn. She’s picking at her food; also not like Aeryn. And it’s an odd question. He always goes down to the planet; setting foot on a new world is still a novelty and he still looks forward to it.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she shrugs, “I was thinking I would stay aboard Moya.”

“OK,” he says and wonders where this is going.

“I thought it would be good to have some time without everyone else around,” she says and looks him in the eyes, “you know? A little privacy.”

“That sounds reasonable.” He says slowly. Is she trying to get rid of him? Has he pissed her off so badly she can’t bear to be alone on the ship with him?

“So, you‘ll let me know if you’re going to stay on board?”

“Um, OK?” Aeryn regards him with an open mouth and raised brows. Her lip curls slightly. He knows this look well; it’s the one she reserves for when she thinks he’s being particularly idiotic. He’s definitely missing something.

“You do know what I’m saying don’t you?”

“Um…”

“Think about it.” she stands up shaking her head and leaves.

John watches her go as he takes another mouthful of footmeal. Think about what?

 

_**A few microts later…** _

“Oh? Oh!”

 

_**Aeryn’s quarters…** _

Aeryn slips slowly into the round bronze bath tub. The water is warm and slippery against her skin and Aeryn wriggles to get comfortable and concentrates on relaxing.

The bathtub is still a novelty for Aeryn. The nearest thing they have on a command carrier is the huge central steam room, which was always more an opportunity to socialise than relax, since it tended to be noisy and public. Bathtubs were rare; reserved for captains and executive officers only. She has always showered communally.

The modest barracks on Moya, that housed the prison guards, have a small communal shower chamber. When she first came aboard she had considered staying in the barracks out of a misguided desire to keep herself apart from the others and preserve her Peacekeeper identity. After sitting up there alone for a few arns she’d begun to feel rather silly; so she chose this cell. It's smaller than many of the others but it's at the end of a corridor, offering the separation she desired at the time, and it has a large bathing area with a tub.

She smiles at the irony that this prison cell—albeit on the tier reserved for highest status prisoners—has better facilities than the Peacekeepers that guarded them. It was quite funny really…provided you weren’t actually a prisoner.

She slips her hands down her body; rubbing the slippery water into her skin. This is another delightful novelty. The water is diluted with Moya’s amnexus fluids; like the pool they use for their laundry, albeit a much weaker solution. It means she has no need of any other cleansing agents and it leaves her skin wonderfully soft and silky. Extremely efficient. And her hair, historically an unmanageable frizzy mess, becomes a flowing, shiny waterfall after being rinsed through with it. Sometimes Aeryn thinks if she washes with it long enough her thick wavy mane will one day end up completely straight…but that would be ridiculous. Aeryn smiles; amused at the thought.

She tips back her head and closes her eyes.

Privacy, that’s concept she has begun to enjoy. Space to think.

Aeryn has been doing a lot of thinking in the past weeken. A lot of it in the bath.

The trouble with sex, her thoughts run, is that when you don’t have any for a very long time you stop thinking about it; you don’t miss it. But indulge just a little and you realise just how hungry you are. It’s hard to eat a small slice and not think about taking the whole pie. Especially when it’s good pie. Especially when the pie is still there on the counter; hot and tempting.

And why resist? Once she got over the fact that Crichton isn’t Sebacean, and there is hardly any difference that she can tell, why not go ahead and enjoy? As long as everyone is clear about the situation. Humans must recreate too…mustn’t they? It’s only logical. Frankly, it galls her not to take advantage of the one thing that Crichton doesn’t seem to need intensive remedial training for. The things he can do wit—

“Officer Sun.” Pilot’s voice rings out over the comm and interrupts her train of thought, “You asked me to let you know when the others left for the commerce planet.”

“Yes?” she asks.

“The transport pod has just departed.”

“Thank you, Pilot,” she acknowledges, “did Crichton go with them?”

“No, Officer Sun. Commander Crichton is still on board Moya. Did you want him?” Pilot asks, “shall I let him know that you want him?”

“No!” Aeryn splutters at the unfortunate turn of phrase, “No, thank you Pilot.”

“Very well.” Pilot says and closes the comms.

Aeryn sinks down further into the tub, until her chin touches the surface of the water, and takes a deep breath. She notes her elevated pulse rate and concentrates on calming it. That sort of thing, she thinks, is why it isn’t such a logical idea. She has to be cautious; think it through carefully.

She closes her eyes and, biting gently on her bottom lip, gives the matter some serious consideration.

 

_**Pilots den…** _

In his fixed position in his den Pilot manages Moya’s multiple systems on, as it were, auto-pilot. He’s feeling a little lonely. Oh, he has Moya and she’s usually company enough for him, but over the last cycle he’s become used to having regular visitors who come and talk to him about all manner of things.

It’s a revelation to be treated as something other than a mere functionary, a servitor. They treat him like a friend and he finds he rather likes it; though he has a constant nagging feeling that he doesn’t deserve it.

His favourite visitor is Officer Sun; she's intelligent and thoughtful and she, out of all of them, understands him best. Especially when it comes to their shared feelings about Talyn. Pilot feels he can really talk to Officer Sun. Aeryn.

Pilot wonders when she will come to visit him next. He hasn’t seen her for several solar days. Maybe he could ask her to come and visit. He thinks that might be OK. Possibly?

He consults Moya, but she doesn’t really understand the question.

“Perhaps,” he thinks, “I should think of something that I need help with. Yes, that would be a good idea.”

 

_**On route to John’s quarters…** _

John takes his time before going back to his room. First he tidies up a few things in the maintenance bay and drops by the central chamber to grab a drink. He isn’t sure he caught Aeryn’s drift quite right earlier on and doesn’t want to come across too eager; just in case he’s wrong.

As he saunters along the corridor toward the living tier he wonders what he should do next. Somehow going to Aeryn’s quarters seems like a bad idea, an intrusion, regardless of what he thinks she implied earlier. No, Aeryn’s place is off limits. His fairly new, but highly developed, sense of his self-preservation tells him that much. That same sense of self-preservation wonders if the whole thing is a bad idea.

He decides, for now, he's going to take a shower.

He turns on the water and begins to wash. Of all the weird ass things he’s encountered on this side of the galaxy, one thing he thinks he’ll never get used to is Moya’s showers. It’s bad enough they have to wash their clothes in a pool of a spaceship's bodily fluids (all this advance tech and no-one has thought to install a washer?) but having it mixed in with the shower water is just…just weird.

Yeah it gets him clean, but it’s still freaky. And it makes his hair feel kinda greasy.

Still, he doesn’t have a lot of options so he makes sure he keeps his mouth firmly shut and tries not to think about it. John has become very good at trying not to think about things.

He steps out of the shower, towels himself dry and strolls into his room wrapping the towel around his waist. He’s only mildly surprised when he sees Aeryn sitting on his bed.

She’s dressed in her workout gear; black pants, black socks and a dark green tank top. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders and it looks damp, as if she’s not long got out of the shower herself. She hasn’t noticed him yet and is nibbling on a fingernail with an abstracted expression. She looks like a dream. He’s had this dream--this exact dream--more than a few times. John wonders if he should pinch himself just to make sure he’s really awake.

He holds his breath, eyes riveted to the finger she’s holding to her mouth, and wills her to slip it between her lips and suck it. He concentrates for a few moments until, disappointed that he hasn’t developed any freaky mind control powers in the shower, he gives up and coughs to announce his presence.

“Hello,” she says as she he turns to him and treats him to a fleeting smile that makes him wish, fiercely, that he was wearing something a little more substantial than a towel.

“Hey. You get lost on your way somewhere?” he asks, trying for casual and almost succeeding.

She shakes her head, her expression serious, but John can see the rose pink bloom on her cheeks from across the room. She stretches her long legs out before her, leans back on her hands and gives him an appraising look, sweeping her eyes slowly up and down his body. When she finishes her eyes lock on his and hold his gaze for a long time, quietly challenging. He breaks first.

He approaches the bed and sits at the foot of it. He tugs gently on the hem of her pants, “you planning on working out?”

The smile she’s been trying to suppress blooms suddenly and she runs her tongue over her lips, “Maybe.”

“You’ve hardly spoken to me for days,” he says, he tucks his fingers under the hem of her pants and runs them lightly over the silken skin of her ankle.

“I’ve been busy,” she says with a shrug,

“Guess Peacekeepers don’t teach the three day rule,” he mumbles.

“The what?” she asks.

“It’s a human thing,” he says, “after you you spend the night with someone you have to call after three days. No more. No less.”

“What for?”

“Well, if it’s less, that’s too eager, right? Clingy. Nobody likes that. More and it means you’re not interested.” he's amusing himself; spinning her a line about a dating tactic he’s only ever seen on T.V. and would never consider using. He's never been one for games, though he's been played a couple of times.

“Oh,” she says, “I’ll bear that in mind in future.”

He takes one of her feet in his hands and rests it across his lap; she wriggles her toes as he strips of a black sock. He begins to rub her foot and she regards him with a slightly raised eyebrow and a small smile.

She does have very nice feet. He has a sudden urge to lick the sole, see if he’s right about the footmeal, but he resists; predicting it would be a very quick route to a broken nose.

“Why are you doing that?” she asks.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s OK,” she says, “It’s not really what I’m here for.”

“Oh. Right.” he shrugs and makes a performance of rolling the sock back on slowly. When he’s finished he leans forward and asks, “what _are_ you here for?”

Aeryn rolls her eyes, slips her hands under the waistband of her pants and begins to wriggle out of them.

“Look,” she says, “we probably don’t have that much time; we should get on with it.”

She flings the clothing to the floor and John gapes at her, too stunned to speak. Officer Aeryn Sun is not like other girls.

John recovers his composure quickly; Ok, fine, he thinks he can play this game. With a slightly stunned shake of the head he leans forward and kisses her lips, soft at first but very quickly becoming deeper, more intense. They sink back onto the bed as he slips the straps of her top down and trails kisses over her body.

Her hands guide him, gently demanding, and her fingers thread into his hair; soon his head is between her thighs. She squirms and hums in appreciation.

Before long, words his translator microbes can’t handle begin to trip from her lips.

 

_**Pilot’s den - a respectable amount of time later…** _

Pilot cuts the comm and smiles. He’s been struggling to find a suitable reason to call Officer Sun to his den, but the co-ordinates that Ka D’Argo has just instructed him to plot a course for are the perfect thing. He knows there probably won’t be an issue, but he can use it as an excuse to ask for a visit.

He opens the comms, “Officer Sun?”

There’s no answer. He tries again.

“Officer Sun?”

Still nothing.

“Officer Sun!”

“Pilot!” Officer Sun’s voice rings out over the comm; it sounds rather strained.

“I wonder if you could come to the den,” he asks, “I have something I wish to discuss.”

“I’m kind of busy right now! _Mmmmm_ ,”

Pilot frowns, there’s definitely something wrong with her voice.

“Are you alright Officer Sun,” he asks.

“I’m fine _….stop that_!…everything’s fine… _no, wait!_ …I’m just training, yes, training… _oh frell!_ ”

“Oh, well as I said, I would appreciate your presence when you’ve finished,” he says.

“ _Oh yes!_ ” Aeryn shouts, “ _Yes!_ ”

“So, you’re coming Officer Sun?” says Pilot. There’s no need to shout, he thinks.

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Thank you Officer Sun,” he cuts the comm. Pilot doesn’t know very much about sport or exercise, stationary as he is, but whatever she’s training in he thinks it must be a very advance technique.

 

_**John quarters…** _

“You bastard,” Aeryn pants, sprawled out on the bed. She drops the comm on the sheets.

John clambers up and looms over her, grinning.

“Are you coming, Office Sun?” he drawls.

“Frell you,” she says and pushes him off her and rolls him onto his back. She straddles him and gives him a million kilowatt smile…

 

_**Pilot’s Den…** _

Pilot is worried. Officer Sun said she would come to see him almost half an arn ago and she has still not arrived. When he spoke to her she sounded like she was under a lot of stress.

He checks the location of her comms; Commander Crichton’s quarters. He opens the comms and, just as he’s about to speak, he hears a strange sound; a long, painful gasp. And a scream. What’s happening? It sounds like Officer Sun. He hears a yell, and a grunt, which he identifies as coming from Commander Crichton.

Something terrible must be happening.

They must be in trouble.

There must be an intruder!

He checks his scans and finds nothing, but he’s made mistakes before. He can’t let them down again. He dispatches some of Moya's armed DRDs to Commander Crichton’s quarters and waits, listening to the terrifying noises over the comms.

He fervently hopes they get there in time.

 

_**John’s Quarters…** _

Aeryn kneels straddled across John’s lap and rocks her hips gently. They haven’t got as far as removing the last of her clothing; she’s still wearing her black ankle socks and her top is pulled down around her waist. John sits upright and they have their arms wrapped around each other in a tight embrace. Their skin glistens with sweat.

She’s coming down from a particularly intense moment and doesn’t hear the swoosh of the door as it slides open.

Aeryn leans back a little and they share a kiss and a smile before she tips her head back and allows John to bury his face between her breasts. It's then that she notices, out of the corner of her eye, small lights twinkling by the door.

“John,” she whispers in a flat voice.

“What?” he mumbles, coming up for air.

“Look!” she nudges his attention towards the door.

They both turn to look, clutching each other, and are faced with a row of DRDs, their little eyes stalks glowing in the low light. Each one has it’s ludicrously small, but immensely powerful, cannon raised and ready to fire. It shouldn’t be possible, but as the DRDs wobble their little lights at them they look somewhat confused and somewhat quizzical.

“This is not a good way to die, Aeryn,” John whispers in her ear in a hoarse voice and Aeryn shudders, mortified.

She slowly leans back, keeping a careful eye on the DRDs, and rummages among the sheets for the comm.

“Pilot,” she says softly, “what’s going on?”

“Are you alright Officer Sun?” Pilot’s voice is fraught with concern, “I detected sounds of distress. And I was worried when you didn’t come when you said you would.” John heaves and splutters in the background.

“We’re fine Pilot, can you please call off the DRDs?”

“Of course, Officer Sun.”

“Thank you, and Pilot? I’ll be along later.”

The DRDs lower their guns and mill around as if confused until John clambers up from the bed, blanket wrapped around him, and shoos them out of the room. They scuttle around his feet a little before finally leaving. He shuts the door and leans his against it with his face buried in his hand.

“Somebody has got to have a talk with Pilot about the birds and the bees.”

“It would be rather more effective if someone has a talk with him about sex!” says Aeryn and she gets up from the bed and walks up to him pulling the straps of her tank top back on her shoulders.

She slowly unwraps the sheet from around John’s waist like he’s a birthday present. She surveys her gift with an appreciative smile and is pleased when John blushes.

“No more interruptions,” she says as she drops to her knees.

 

_**The transport pod - a short while later…** _

D’Argo manoeuvres the transport pod through Moya's hanger door and whistles. He’s very excited. Their shopping trip has been moderately successful, they have enough basic provisions to last couple of weekens, but better than than--more important than that--they have heard rumours of a Luxan on the next planet in this system; barely an arn away.

A Luxan.

It's been cycles since he’s even seen another of his species and he wants to leave immediately. A Luxan might be able to show him the way home.

Zaahn has already agreed to accompany him. Rygel and Chiana, thankfully, couldn’t be any less interested. He wants to talk to Crichton. As soon as the docking web catches them in it’s automated grasp he opens the comms.

“Crichton.”

He gets no response.

"Crichton!" he calls again.

“Oh for crying out loud!” Crichton yells back, “what the hell is it now?”

“It’s D’Argo, I’ve got some news I need to tell you. Where are you?”

“In my quarters. I’m busy!”

“Whatever it is, this is more important. I’m coming straight down as soon as we dock.”

“D’Argo, no damn it.” he pauses and when he speaks again his voice has gone up a couple of octaves, _”…oh my god…what are you doing!”_

 

_**John’s quarters - about thirty microts later…** _

“What the hell was that!” John gasps in a stunned falsetto voice. Half the synapses in his brain are fizzing and for a few seconds there he definitely lost his vision. He’s glad he has the door to lean against as there’s no way his legs will support him on their own right now. Aeryn looks up at him, arches a perfect eyebrow and flexes her jaw.

“We needed to finish quickly,” she says simply.

“Mission accomplished,” he says and mumbles, “that’s a helluva a thing.”

“You’re more susceptible than most.”

John gapes at her.

Her head tilts in an awkward jerky movement and John realises he has a handful of hair and is gripping pretty tight. He lets go, untwisting his fingers as politely as he can manage, and mutters an apology.

Aeryn gets up, collects her clothes from the floor and begin to dress.

“You need to get dressed,” she says, “D’Argo will be here any microt.”

John nods and does as he’s told. He's still somewhat dazed. He is tying his boots when Aeryn opens the door to his quarters and stands at the threshold, arms folded, as if she’s just arrived for a chat. Her efforts to look casual might have been more successful if she didn’t have the most astonishing case of sex hair he’s ever seen. She looks like Cher, from the 80s, after half an arn in a wind tunnel. He wonders if he should point it out.

Too late!

“Crichton!” D’Argo strides up to the doorway in his usual, purposeful manner, “I need to speak to you.”

“Sure thing, Bro,” says Crichton. He’s going for nonchalance, but he suspects it’s not working.

D’Argo frowns at them as they stand awkwardly before him. He sniffs and wrinkles his nose before breaking into a highly amused leer.

“I trust you’ve had a productive afternoon?” he says and his voice is oily with suggestion.

“Of course,” says Aeryn, her tone clipped and glacial.

D’Argo sniffs again and looks Aeryn up and down; his eyes linger on her wild hair style and then sweep down to her shoulder. He snorts, “I think you have something on your shirt.”

Standing behind her, John buries his face in his hand. _She’s going to kill him. Or me. Probably both._

“Chiana is taking the laundry to the amnexus pool, perhaps you should join her.”

_He’s a dead man._

“You’ve got Chiana doing your laundry?”

D’Argo shrugs and continues to leer at them. John can see, from the set of her shoulders and ultra stiff posture, that Aeryn is extremely pissed off.  She scowls at them and stomps away down the corridor. Watching her go John figures that’s the last he’ll be seeing of her for the next few days. He sighs, this isn’t how he wants the afternoon to end. He was hoping for a chance to talk.

“You’re not helping me, man” he says to D’Argo.

“I this what you meant by stuff?” D’Argo asks with smirk, his eyes wide with amusement.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Crichton.

“Crichton,” says D’Argo, tapping his nose, “this nose can smell the sex on you from the next tier.”

John waves his hand at him and shakes his head, “Just…don’t say anything to Aeryn.”

“Why, doesn’t she know?” D’Argo says with a snort.

“Just…don’t.”

John turns back into his room, picks the sheet up of the floor and throws it back on the bed.

“What do you want, D’Argo?”

He half listens as D’Argo tells him of his Luxan excursion. He's pleased for his friend,  but finds himself growing increasingly annoyed at the abrupt halt called to what was working out to be a pretty awesome afternoon.  In the end he agrees to go with D’Argo.

“We leave in an arn. Smarten yourself up.” D’Argo says, “and I suggest you take a shower…I’m not taking you anywhere when you smell like that.”

John stands in his doorway seething. He has a good mind to go down stinking, but he takes a shower anyway. The alien goo water makes his hair greasy and it spikes up in a weird way when he tries to style it. He dresses as smartly as his wardrobe allows and heads on down to the hanger in a particularly bad mood. So much for an afternoon of fun and relaxation.

 

_**Three days later…** _

John walks back to his quarters stripping off his EV suit as he goes. It’s much better than the huge cumbersome suits from his IASA training, but after half a day in one repairing Moya’s outer hull he feels clammy, claustrophobic and he’s looking forward to a long, hot shower.

He arrives at his quarters and is surprised to find the lights on; Moya usually turns them off when there’s no-one in. He peers round the doorway quietly and sees Aeryn, sat on his bed.

“Officer Sun?” he says as he enters.

“Commander Crichton,” she replies, her tone is formal but the effect is undermined by her twisted smile.

“Can I help you with something?” he says as he steps out of the legs of the EV suit. He bunches it up and throws it in a corner. Aeryn frowns at this display of messiness.

“I’m just doing what you said,” she says as she turns her attention back to him, “the three day rule, remember?”

John smiles and looks at the ceiling thinking that he really should be more careful about what things he tells her.

“It’s not really a rule…more of a guideline. Not even that.”

“Oh?” She cocks her head at him. “that’s a shame. It seemed very sensible.”

“What are we doing here, Aeryn?” John asks.

“Recreation,” she says with a firm nod as if it's perfectly obvious.

“Recre—?” John buries his face in his hands, at a loss for words.

A small voice in the back of his head says that they need to have a real conversation about this. That she can’t simply turn up in his room whenever she feels like it and expect him to put out. That if they carry on like this one, or both, of them is going to get hurt. The small voice says all of these things.

A louder, more insistent, voice that he's pretty sure is being generated somewhere other than his brain, tells him not to be such a pussy; that she most definitely can turn up whenever she feels like it. And whenever she does he should, without fail, ask her to do that thing again.

“I need a shower,” he says finally, “I feel like crap after being in that thing all day.”

“Works for me,” Aeryn climbs up from the bed and walks into his bathing area, “coming?”

John watches her go and he catches glimpses of her around the curve of the wall as she undresses. He presses his thumb against his lips; it would be rude to leave her there alone, he thinks, and he was raised to be a well mannered boy. 

The louder voice wins. He decides can deal with his issues later, and follows her into the bathroom.

He asks her to do that thing again and she responds with a slow, slightly terrifying, feline grin.

They take their time.

And there are no interruptions.


End file.
